


Racing Hearts and Breaking Apart

by crapoftheworld



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Car Racing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Racing, BAMF Keith (Voltron), BAMF Lance (Voltron), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Engineer Hunk (Voltron), Engineer Pidge (Voltron), Eventual Keith/Lance (Voltron), Faked Death, Inspector Coran (Voltron), Lovers to, M/M, Mechanic Hunk (Voltron), Mechanic Pidge (Voltron), Past Relationship(s), Racer Keith (Voltron), Racer Lance (Voltron), Racer Shiro (Voltron), Racing, Slow Burn, Speed Racer (2015) AU, Voltron Lions as Racecars, Yikes, i'm pioneering so many of those tags, lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:20:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crapoftheworld/pseuds/crapoftheworld
Summary: Keith Kogane finished Fuji Helexicon with an embarrassing DNF. He only had one chance left if he ever wanted to see the inside of the WRL Grand Prix Colosseum, and that meant competing in the Casa Cristo 5000 -- the cross-country rally race that had led to his surrogate brother Takashi Shirogane’s untimely demise.If he wanted to survive the Crucible, he’d need a trustworthy mechanic, someone with a tactical eye in the sky, two racing partners, and some defensive modifications for the Red Lion, his hand tooled and custom molded T-180.The odds are already stacked up against him, but it doesn’t help that Galra Industries is sending in their own three-man team led by family scion Lotor. If Keith wants to win this race, he’ll have to leave his past behind and be a team player.
Relationships: Keith & Lance (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. Hunk

**Author's Note:**

> This is really niche and self indulgent, so if you haven't seen Speed Racer (the 2015 movie) it might be a little hard to follow? In my AU, Keith is Speed, Shiro is Rex/Racer X, and Coran is Inspector Detector. Then, the Galra are basically Royalton Industries. Everything else is kinda just whatever I want, which means making Lance a badass :)

“Look, Keith, nobody’s saying that the Grey Ghost is a better driver than you! All I’m trying to say is that E-squared is better funded and they could afford that 26-cylinder Karasugoi hotblock! If I could build one of those, I would, but we _literally_ cannot afford the parts.”

“In case you forgot, we’re building cars out of your _dead father’s garage!_ ” Pidge piped in, not looking up from her laptop.

Hunk winced, thinking they might’ve come on a bit harsh, but he and Pidge had agreed that Keith required firmer guidance from time to time. Despite being the best driver to have come out of Cosmopolis since Speed Racer himself, the kid was a loose cannon.

“Fine, so Écron Éstablissement is rich! Fuji was supposed to be my ticket to get into the Grand Prix, and I didn’t even clear Corkscrew Pass! I _know_ for a fact that I would’ve finished on the podium if Togokahn hadn’t teamed up with the Grey _fucking_ Ghost against me! Did you see them back on Thunderhead? I could beat them any day!”

“So it was a bad race,” Hunk responded evenly. “Bad luck, a fluke, whatever. We can always get you into the Grand Prix next year, buddy,” Hunk said, moving over to pat him on the shoulder. Keith deflated.

“I know, guys. I’m sorry for yelling at you. I’m just… really frustrated.”

“You and me both, pal. I should’ve warned you about your blind spot at the volcano, but I got distracted with speed calculations for your next jump. Your DNF is as much on the crew as it is on the racer. All of our names are listed on the Voltron ticket,” Pidge said, pushing her glasses up and finally looking away from her monitor. She offered Keith a supportive smile.

“That was weird. Please never be nice to me again,” Keith grumbled, standing up to refill his coffee mug as Hunk snickered behind him.

The day after a big race usually meant it was a slow morning in the Voltron household. Usually there would be a bit more… celebration involved, but once in a while Keith would be in need of some cheering up after a tough loss.

Hunk, for one, was never too disappointed when Keith lost a race. Sure, he would’ve _preferred_ that his friend got his trip down Victory Lane and a glass of cold milk, but he also knew without a shadow of a doubt that Keith was the bet professional racer in Cosmopolis. That was why he was working with him, after all.

Now, outside of the World Racing League was another story. There were plenty of fine street racers in the city, among them Hunk’s ex-best friend -- Lance McClain, or the Sharpshooter as his fans had taken to calling him. Lance used to hang with all of them, was basically family, until… well, it wasn’t important now.

There was a knock on the door, and Hunk realized he would have to get it because Pidge had already turned back to her computer, probably working on designing a new track. She fancied herself the next Velocity Dewitt.

“I’ve got it,” Hunk yelled, and he received two grunts of acknowledgment as he crossed the living room, cracking the door open.

He was alarmed to see Inspector Coran and Champion waiting impatiently on the doorstep.

“Uh, hello?”

Champion had his trademark suit on, a black leather outfit with white detailing. He was easily recognizable by the really cool bionic arm (that Hunk would _love_ to dissect) and the black mask that covered the upper half of his face. Hunk knew the CIB Inspector that accompanied Champion by his bright orange facial hair. He had helped Keith out back when Shiro died.

“Why hello there, Hunk. Is Keith Kogane here?”

Before Hunk could respond, the man in question padded back from the kitchen, clutching a full mug of Pidge’s cold brew.

“Who the hell’s asking?”

Hunk hastily pulled the door open, allowing Inspector Coran and Champion to step inside, and Keith had the decency to look mildly embarrassed.

“Sorry, we’ve been getting a lot of corporations coming by for… Anyways, what can I do for you, Inspector?”

Even Pidge looked up from her work with more than mild interest, eyes tracking the movements of the two men as they walked through the living room and settled at the dining table where Keith had begun clearing their blueprints for the Red Lion.

“Keith, it’s great to see you. And is that Pidge over there? How's the new track design coming?"

"It's coming, alright. I'm pretty sure this is my best track yet! It's definitely better than whatever piece of junk the WRL cooked up for this year's Prix," Pidge replied, not bothering to look up from her computer.

Coran laughed before turning back to Keith, twirling his mustache with a gloved hand.

"I saw your race at Helexicon, very impressive. You’re gonna go places with that car and this crew, I can just tell!”

Hunk could see that Keith was barely holding back a self-deprecating scoff. Instead, a grimace graced his face and he shrugged half-heartedly. Hunk supposed that was the best they would get out of him.

“Thanks, Coran. I didn’t qualify for the Grand Prix, though, so there aren’t many places for me to be going…”

Coran chuckled and Hunk busied himself cooking breakfast for his friends and their unexpected visitors. It felt like a pancake kind of morning.

“That’s actually why we’re here, Keith,” Champion cut in, looking rather severe. “Surprising though it may be, this visit wasn’t purely social.”

Following that statement, Champion subtly jabbed the inspector in the ribs with his robotic limb. Pidge watched the exchange like a hawk. If Hunk had to guess, the fingers flying across their keyboard were taking notes on the mysterious vigilante sitting in their dining room.

“Right, thank you for the reminder, _Champion,_ ” the inspector said, shooting the masked man a glare. “Keith, we’ve come with a proposition. We know that you wanted to compete in the Grand Prix, and we want to help you do that.”

Hunk’s arm that had been busily beating eggs for the batter slowed to a halt, and he saw that Pidge had ceased her violent keyboard clacking.

“I just told you I blew it. I can’t get into the Prix,” Keith said, a look of confusion and mild annoyance crossing over his face.

“There’s one more race that can qualify you for this year’s Grand Prix, and that’s--”

“The Casa Cristo Classic 5000,” Hunk cut in from the kitchen, frowning all the while. “You want _Keith Kogane_ to race in the Crucible? That’s your brilliant idea?” Hunk asked incredulously, abandoning his measuring cups and marching back into the dining room.

“We understand that Keith has a… history with the race, but it’s the only way to get him into the Grand Prix. We wouldn’t have asked if Keith wasn’t the best racer in Cosmopolis. We need his help to--”

“Like hell, you need his help,” Pidge interrupted, standing from her seat at the table. “You just want to get him all tangled up in your race-fixing investigation, isn’t that right, _Inspector?_ ” she spat venomously, and Coran looked down at his lap sheepishly.

Sometimes it scared Hunk how easily Pidge could switch on her I'll-kill-you-and-everyone-you-love mode, but in this case he was grateful to have the CIB agent on the defensive. This was by far the worst possible thing that could've happened this morning, besides Hunk discovering that their milk was expired and having to use a substitute in the pancake mix.

Before Champion could give his two cents, Keith slammed his mug down on the table, successfully getting everybody’s attention.

“Considering the fact that _you,_ ” he said as he gestured to Coran and Champion, “are here asking for _my_ help, I would think that my opinion on the matter would be warranted!

Nobody made any moves to interrupt him, so he plowed right along through the thick silence.

“I know that Shiro died in the Crucible, but I’m not him! And I want a chance to race in the Prix _this_ year,” he said, glancing pointedly at Hunk. “I’ll help you with whatever you need for your investigation, Coran, just tell me what we need to do.”

Hunk was surprised by this turn of events since Keith had never been one to make deals or accept help, but on the other hand, teaming up with Champion to get into the Grand Prix wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, as long as Keith was racing independently for Voltron in the Prix.

Though, Hunk wasn’t excited about aiding the CIB in their investigation, if only because it might put him and his friends in harm’s way. Otherwise, he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea of playing a role in exposing the rampant race-fixing that had been plaguing the World Racing League. Maybe this wouldn’t be too bad after all.

“You just need to find a third racer for our team, and if your crew is willing, we would appreciate their help installing defensive modifications for the rally. It can get pretty hairy out there,” Champion said, and Pidge’s eyes were positively glowing with excitement.

"Why don't _you guys_ find the third racer for the team?" Keith shot back, crossing his arms over his chest and expression becoming guarded.

"Obviously, the CIB can't recruit racers,' Coran said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "And Champion over her doesn't have a sponsor. But you guys are Voltron Motors! You have the connections and reputation to find another racer for the team. You grew up in Cosmopolis, right?" the inspector asked, waiting for Keith's grunted confirmation before continuing. "Surely you're familiar with some of the local racers."

“We’d love to help! Keith definitely knows another racer for the team, _right_ Keith?”

Hunk wasn’t surprised when Keith refused to make eye contact with Pidge. Lance was a sore subject around here. Unfortunately for Keith, he could no doubt feel Pidge’s glare burning into his back and eventually he submitted, giving a half nod in defeat.

“That’s wonderful to hear. We’re very sorry to have interrupted your morning. Here’s my card, call me in the next week once you’ve got our third racer!” Coran said, grabbing Keith’s hand and shaking it vigorously.

Hunk frowned as Coran showed himself out, Champion following silently and oh-so-mysteriously. They hadn’t even stayed for his pancakes.

“Pidge! Why’d you say I know another racer? Where are we going to find someone to compete in the Crucible with us?” Keith yelled as soon as the front door closed behind the inspector.

“I know that _you_ know exactly who you need if you want to win this thing,” Pidge replied smugly, reaching across the table and stealing Keith’s mug to take a sip from. “It’s about time you two got over yourselves, anyway.”

Hunk patted a grumbling Keith on the back, shuffling back into the kitchen to finish mixing the pancake batter.

Competing in the Casa Cristo was a huge deal for any racer, but _especially_ for Keith. It had been almost three years since Shiro had died in the very race that Keith was planning to participate in.

His car, the Black Lion, had been reduced to nothing but a pile of smoking rubble. No body was ever recovered. Inspector Coran, the best the CIB had to offer, hadn’t given up, but the years went by and no new information ever came up.

The trail had gone cold, and even though Hunk suspected Shiro could very well be alive and active, he’d never broached the subject with Keith. Thinking like that wouldn’t be healthy for him, especially now that he had his own problems to deal with.

“Pancake batch numero uno is served,” he called, interrupting Keith and Pidge’s bickering by setting a plate stacked with ten pancakes right between them. “You may kiss the chef.”

“Thanks, Hunk,” Keith said as he transferred two pancakes to his plate and dug in.

Pidge and Hunk did the same, and Pidge decided to continue her argument with her mouth full.

“You know full well that Lance McClain is the best racer in Cosmopolis, besides yourself. So you have a little bad blood? That’s nothing that competing in a life-threatening rally race can’t help smooth over!”

“There’s no way I’m going to race with McClain! That asshole should be rotting in--”

“Enough!” Hunk finally yelled, effectively silencing Keith’s angry rant and the retort Pidge was clearly preparing. “It’s too early for this. Keith, if you want to race in the Crucible, we’ll support you. But your only chance of winning is if you get Lance on your team, and you know it. So the choice is sucking up your pride or waiting another year for a shot at the Grand Prix.”

Keith opened his mouth, looking like he was about to argue some more, but Hunk was having none of it.

“That’s the deal, buddy, sorry. Now shut up and eat your pancakes.”


	2. Keith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith heads to the race track to blow off some steam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even care that no one else is reading this, I just love this AU so much I'm such a nerd lmaooo (But I should probably be working on my other fics that other people are actually reading oops)

As soon as Keith finishes angrily shoveling pancakes into his mouth, he grabs his jacket and keys and bids his annoying flatmates a hasty goodbye.

He’s worked up about a lot of things. Mainly the fact that he thought he had blown it and lost any chance he had of competing in the Grand Prix this year. He’d yelled at his teammates, but he knew it was his fault. He’d been distracted by the upcoming jump too, had activated his jump jacks mere _seconds_ too late, but that was all it took.

He’d collided mid-air with Togokahn’s driver instead of maneuvering himself around both the Hangul and the Fumee, and ended up sandwiched in between the two. Before he knew it, his quicksave device had activated and he was out of the race. He’d fucked up.

And now Inspector Coran and _Champion_ of all people come waltzing back into his life, offering him a ticket to the Grand Prix on a silver platter. Well, if it was a silver platter it was definitely a tarnished one. Competing in the Casa Cristo was no walk in the park, at least from what Keith had heard.

And apparently if he wanted to do _that,_ he’d have to recruit a third racer for his team. Pidge and Hunk had made it pretty clear who they thought he should recruit.

Lance used to be Keith’s teammate, the only other racer to drive for Voltron Motors besides himself and Shiro. He’d been good, too. Obviously. Shiro was out of both of their leagues, but Lance had always been competitive with Keith.

_“That all you got, Mullet?” Lance yelled at Keith, his hair whipping wildly around his face because he hadn’t bothered with a helmet or goggles._

_“I dunno, Lance! What do you think of this?” Keith yelled right back, his voice nearly being drowned out by the rushing wind as he veered into Lance’s lane, running him into the wall of the track._

_“Dirty move, Kogane!”_

Keith shook his head, clearing away the memories of friendship, of finishing the race ( _“I won, fair and square!” “No way, we were neck and neck the whole way!”_ ), of pulling over on the side of the road to make out in the moonlight.

Things had been good for Keith, three years ago that was. Shiro had been alive and he’d had Lance and Voltron Motors was just becoming a household name. But that all came crashing down pretty quickly.

The recent visit from Coran and Champion hadn’t been entirely _unwelcome,_ but it certainly hadn’t made Keith’s already foul mood any better. And anyone that knew him also knew that when he needed to blow off some steam, he went to Thunderhead Raceway.

He liked to just sit in the empty stands, breathe in the fresh midday air of Cosmopolis, and try to clear his head. Pidge and Hunk understood. Lance used to understand, too.

Keith nodded to the only employee working at the desk, who nodded back. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence, for Keith to come out to the raceway in the middle of a slow weekday. At this point, all of the people at Thunderhead that didn’t work the major events knew Keith’s name.

He clambered up the stairs, heading up to the upper stadium seats. He always sat in section 5-L -- where he used to sit to watch Shiro’s races when he was too young to participate in them himself.

As he plopped down in his seat, fully prepared to take a load off and forget about all of his problems, he noticed that the raceway wasn’t completely abandoned like it usually was. There was a lone car on the track that had seemingly _just_ rolled out.

It was a gaudy electric blue, clearly made out of repurposed parts and lacking T-180 wheelbases. The windows were heavily tinted, which wasn’t unusual, and the word ‘Altea’ printed in large, black block letters on the tail of the car didn’t ring any bells for Keith. It wasn’t a sponsor Keith had heard of, so he came to the obvious conclusion that anyone else would’ve come to. It was a street racer.

Not WRL sanctioned, anyway. As Keith watched with growing interest, the racer revved his engines and prepared to take off. Completely on a whim, Keith whipped out his phone and opened the stopwatch app, ready to time this racer’s warm-up run.

Keith still remembered the night Shiro had set the record on the track, an impressive time of 09:18:65. A time that nobody, not even Keith, had beaten in the three years that it stood. He didn’t know what he expected from this random street driver without T-180s, but it was always fun to compare. He wouldn’t be able to focus while someone was racing, anyway.

Keith clicked the button on his stopwatch as soon as the car took off, an electric blue blur on the black steel track.

The driver took the turns and sharp corners with ease, quickly coming up on the Dreadnaught Jump. According to Pidge, it was over 30 meters, probably difficult to clear with classic wheels.

The blue car didn’t slow down. In fact, it managed to speed up, and Keith had assumed it was already maxing out on engine pressure. It must’ve been a nice engine, but not anything standard, either. Probably involved some illegal mods.

The car flew off of the ramp, seemingly staying suspended in mid-air for longer than should be possible. Keith had to actively focus on not allowing his jaw to drop.

He had seen the Dreadnaught cleared by basically every car to ever take on Thunderhead. If someone didn’t get it their first try, it only took a few simple calculations and they were soaring across, easy as pie. This car was different for some reason, though. The jump, the transition, the _landing..._ they all looked unbelievably graceful, like whoever was behind the wheel had years of experience.

The Altea car took a sharp turn, sped up a steep incline, then began finessing its way across the Thunderhead’s infamous dog bowls. Keith was no stranger to the obstacles -- he’d had to practice navigating the dips and bumps of that particular track section for hours on end before he could get out without crashing.

The racer in the blue car didn’t seem to be having any trouble, though. It should’ve been impossible without T-180 wheels, but they easily maneuvered through each of the dog bowls, not losing a single second with each of the turns. The car moved fluidly through, almost like it was floating above the track rather than actually connecting with it.

It was incredible.

After the dog bowls, Thunderhead was mostly a straight shot. Designed to give the racers that made it past all of the difficult obstacles time to get the crowds on their side while they traded spots on the track. Many of Shiro’s victories had him biting his nails for that very reason.

Keith had almost forgotten that he was timing this race, but now that the finish line was in sight he readied himself. The second the car passed the checkered flags that were hanging limply from their poles with no breeze to buoy them, Keith slammed his finger down on the stopwatch.

When he looked down to check the time, he audibly gasped.

 _09:16:12._ A full two seconds, _more_ than two seconds, faster than Shiro’s time. And the driver who had just set the new course record had done it for their _warm-up lap._

Keith would’ve doubted it, but he knew he’d timed it right, might’ve even hit the button a bit late when the lap was completed. The driver in the Altea racecar had undeniably beaten Shiro’s record.

Keith’s first reaction was anger. _Who the hell was this driver, coming onto Keith’s track and trashing his brother’s legacy?_ It seemed like the Altea driver had just spat in his face.

On the other hand, the driver was undeniably _skilled._ Keith could imagine them in a fully kitted out T-180 -- they’d be as good as Keith, maybe even better.

And then Keith had the wonderful idea of asking this random street racer to compete in the Crucible with him.

He could bypass _Lance McClain_ completely, and besides, this racer seemed leagues better than Lance had been the last time he’d seen him. Actually, Keith had improved considerably over those three years, too, but that didn’t matter.

Mind made up, Keith vacated his seat and made his way down to the track, planning on introducing himself to the racer who had just gotten out of their car and popped the hood.

Five minutes of power walking later, he was within shouting distance of the distracted driver.

“Hey! You,” Keith yelled, unsure how else to address the driver whose face was still covered by a racing helmet.

They turned toward him and tensed up, probably just startled.

“I’m Keith Kogane,” he said, holding out a hand to shake.

The mysterious street racer took it, gripping lightly before dropping his arm back to his side.

“I know who you are. I saw your race at Fuji Helexicon. It’s a real shame how that turned out for you,” came the slightly muffled reply.

“...Thanks.”

Keith still wasn’t used to people knowing who he was, but he supposed it came with the territory. He was well known in the racing world, if not for his own driving then for being related to Shiro.

“Well, I saw _your_ racing just now, and I was pretty impressed.”

“Makes sense. My racing’s impressive.”

Keith probably should’ve been annoyed by the cocky reply, but something about that voice, about the way the racer was standing with a hip jutting out while they leaned back on the car’s hood… it was familiar. And endearing.

“What’s your name?”

“What do you want?”

 _God,_ this guy was insufferable. Keith could just imagine the self-satisfied grin hidden under the helmet. He would never admit to himself that he was in fact imagining Lance’s trademark smirk.

“Fine. I was wondering if you wanted to compete in the Casa Cristo Classic 5000 with my team. If we win, you’d get a chance to race in the Grand Prix, too. We’d need to get you a _real_ car with T-180s, of course, but you’re clearly--”

He was interrupted by a scoff, and _now_ he was starting to get annoyed.

“You want _me_ to race the Crucible, a _World Racing League_ event?” he asked incredulously.

 _Right._ He was a street racer, and an incredibly good one at that, which meant he’d probably been kicked from the league. Could’ve been for any number of reasons, from illegal mods to race-fixing.

But now that Keith had started this, he wasn’t willing to give up so easily.

“It’s not too difficult to get a new racer registration. I know a guy in the CIB that can help you out, and you could register with Voltron Motors as your official sponsor.”

Keith was having trouble reading the driver’s body language, but at the mention of a sponsor the racer turned his head to the side, clearly ready to end the conversation.

“Or not,” Keith quickly amended. “You could race independently if you wanted. But we can provide you with a vehicle and all of the mods for the rally race, free of charge.”

Keith could sense he was losing the guy even though he’d begrudgingly turned back toward Keith. His shoulders were angled away like he was ready to get back in his car and get the hell out of here.

“Just think about it, alright?” Keith asked earnestly, digging around in his pocket for a pen and paper.

He came up with the business card Inspector Coran had given him earlier at breakfast and quickly scratched his phone number on the back, shoving it into the driver’s hands.

“Call me if you decide you want in.”

Then he buried his hands back in his pockets, turning away from the disgruntled driver and heading back to his parked car in the empty lot of Thunderhead Raceway. It was probably only a couple of hours past noon and Keith had already had a surprisingly eventful day.

He wondered how Hunk and Pidge would react to the fact that he had just tried to recruit a street racer to help him with his only chance of getting into the Grand Prix.

 _Whatever._ Anyone was better than Lance McClain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol more world building notes:  
> ■ Some cars have specific names. Togakahn Motors' car is the Hangul and Écron Éstablissement's is the Fumee (which were referenced above).  
> ■ All cars have quicksave device, which essentially is an airbag for a person. When you crash, your quicksave device is activated, forming a ball around you that bounces you to safety.  
> ■ More about the Crucible: because its a rally race, you're 'allowed' to use all kinds of insane offensive and defensive modifications. They're technically not sanctioned, but because the race isn't on an official track, the WRL can't necessarily stop them from being used.


	3. Allura

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Allura does some snooping and makes a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote more :)))  
> This fic has just turned into my happy place. When I'm stressed or don't know what to work on, this fic is surprisingly easy for me to write.

When Lance burst through the door of their shared penthouse, he looked _pissed._

And it’s not the usual, theatrical anger that Lance liked to flaunt when he’s trying to get Allura’s attention so he can complain to her. It’s a quiet, seething rage that is most definitely authentic and not something she wanted to mess with.

“So how did the new octavelle fasteners and nanometric valve springs hold up?”

As Lance’s street-racing sponsor, Allura ended up having to put up with all of his insane ideas for car modifications. She also found herself scouring scrap yards for spare parts a lot more often than she would’ve ever predicted a few years ago.

She could never fault Lance for making her life more interesting, though.

“They handled fine. I only went the one lap at Thunderhead, though. Some guy tried to recruit me and ruined it,” Lance replied, his voice clipped as he dumped his helmet and jacket on the table. “I’m going for a shower.”

Allura watched as Lance’s figure retreated down the hall, heading for his private bathroom. His bad mood was entirely unusual -- as long as Allura had known him (which had admittedly only been two short years), Lance had been enthusiastic and passionate about everything he did.

She sighed as she grabbed his jacket and helmet, moving them to the coat hangers near the door. Lance usually helped keep a tidy house, but Allura wouldn’t complain today. She had absolutely no idea what had gotten him into such a foul mood, but she could only assume it was something he’d seen at Thunderhead.

Allura turned back toward the dining table and saw a business card there, where Lance’s jacket had been. It must’ve fallen out of the pocket.

She knew Lance valued his privacy, but after straining her ears and hearing a shower running, she decided to have a look at the mysterious card.

“Inspector Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe,” she read aloud, noting the large Corporate Investigation Bureau logo.

Inspector Coran was fairly well-known around Cosmopolis thanks to the big race-fixing scandal that broke a couple of years back. She knew the man well enough -- he was a family friend and had personally helped Allura get her affairs in order after her father’s passing.

She flipped the crumpled business card over and found a phone number there, hastily scribbled in red marker.

 _Is this why Lance was so mad?_ Perhaps he’d run into an old acquaintance. Lance rarely spoke of his past, but she gathered that he used to race in the World Racing League with Voltron Motors. Nothing high profile, and he was a much better racer now than he had been at that time, but his records came to abrupt stop a few months before the Sharpshooter exploded into the underground street-racing scene.

Something bad _must_ have happened at some point, since he had given all of that up. In fact, when she first met him it was because she had seen the famous Sharpshooter annihilate his competition in a drag race and decided she wanted to meet him. She followed the driver into a pub in the middle of Monocity and found him trying to drink himself to death. He had no friends that she knew of, just worked his day job and raced at night.

It was a very unlikely friendship, really. But somehow Allura, a recently orphaned heiress, had found solace in the cocky yet insecure illegal racer she had met on a whim. And they had forged an incredible friendship over the two years that they’d known each other. Allura had never trusted anyone in her life beyond her parents, yet she knew she could trust Lance with her life.

But there was still so much she didn’t know about him.

Allura’s curiosity got the better of her, and she pulled out her phone to dial the number written on the back of the card. It rang three times exactly before there was a click and a gruff voice answered.

“Hello? …Lance?”

_Interesting._

“No, I’m not Lance. Who are you?”

“Oh, uh, I’m Keith. Keith Kogane. Did you… want something?”

 _Keith Kogane._ Allura was certain she’d heard the name somewhere.

“No, sorry, I think I have the wrong number. Have a nice day!” she said, quickly hanging up before Keith could say anything.

 _Keith, Keith, Keith._ The name was so familiar...

She glanced back down the hall. There was steam pouring out of the cracked bathroom door, but the water was still going strong. Lance was probably going through all of his hair and skincare products. She still had time.

Allura flipped the card back over and decided to give Coran a call. When had Lance even met him?

This time, the phone rang for several minutes before someone finally picked it up.

“Hello, Inspector Coran here. What can I do for you?”

“Coran, it’s Allura.”

“Oh, Allura! It’s a pleasure to hear from you, it’s been a while. My question remains, however. Business hours and all that.”

“Right, of course,” she responded, smiling into the phone receiver. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed speaking with Coran. “Do you know anything about… Keith Kogane?”

“Ah yes, young mister Kogane. Younger brother to the legendary Takashi Shirogane, though extremely skilled in his own right. Of course, he’s very loyal to Voltron. I fear you won’t have much luck attempting to court--”

“No worries, Coran, I was just wondering who he was,” Allura interrupted, debating whether or not to ask her next question. She decided she didn’t have much to lose. “Actually, there was someone else I was wondering about, too. Do you know Lance McClain?”

Coran paused on the other end of the line, and she could hear the sound of him clacking away at a keyboard.

“Lance McClain. Coincidentally, he used to race for Voltron with Kogane until he was done in for race-fixing. I’m afraid he has me to thank for the end of his professional racing career. Why do you ask?”

Allura didn’t really know what to do with that information. _Lance had been a race-fixer?_ It almost made sense, why his old racing records were so bad when she _knew_ Lance was a skilled racer. There were too many DNF’s on his record for a natural like him.

And Kogane had tried to recruit him for a race. The only race that was coming up before the WRL Grand Prix was…

“Is Kogane competing in the Crucible this year?”

“Allura, you’re starting to sound as scatterbrained as me with all of your random questions!” Coran said over the phone, causing Allura to huff out in exasperation. “Technically I’m not supposed to tell you, but Keith’s racing with the Champion. They need a third racer for the rally still.”

And there it was. Everything clicked into place. Keith, presumably an old friend of Lance’s, had tried to recruit him to race the Casa Cristo. And either the offer itself or Lance's refusal had left him stewing in his own anger ever since the encounter.

The water was still running in the shower. And Allura had an idea.

“I know a racer for your team. The best street racer in Cosmopolis.”

“What, you know who’s behind the wheel of the Altea racecar? I’ve looked into the Sharpshooter before. Their car’s made entirely of recycled scraps and they’ve never registered with a real name.”

“I know who the Sharpshooter is. And I can get him to race for you. But before I agree to anything, there’s something I need in return,” Allura said, already beginning to question her decision.

“What is it, Princess?”

God, Allura hated that nickname.

“If he has a criminal record, can you get it wiped?”

A brief pause and then a chuckle from Coran.

“Who do you take me for, Allura?” he said, and Allura held her breath. “I could wipe a criminal record in my sleep, no problem. So that’s a deal, then?”

Lance would be _livid_ when he found out. He might never forgive her, might run away like he ran away from Keith. But Lance didn’t belong on the streets -- he was too good for that. He deserved a chance to race in the Grand Prix, regardless of what he had gotten himself tangled up in all those years ago. She knew Lance, and he was a good person.

“Then Lance McClain will race in the Casa Cristo with Kogane and Champion.”

Allura glanced up as she heard the sound of water dripping and found Lance standing at the front of the hallway, wrapped in a towel with his mouth hanging open.

There was a beat of silence where neither of them said anything, and Allura slowly lowered the phone from her ear, Coran’s reply becoming indecipherable.

“Allura, _what the fuck did you do?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nobody come for Coran ok he can be a /little/ illegal and its fine. The entire WRL is crooked anyways!! He's a government agent, so he's already illegally sponsoring Shiro's racing. And using random citizens to conduct an investigation lol. What's a little record-wiping between friends?
> 
> Didn't really proof-read too much. Was feeling lazy~


	4. Lance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance officially joins Team Voltron. Certain people aren't a fan of this turn of events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be an update :) I actually have a million other things to write but eh I was feeling this for a sec

There was a _slight_ chance Lance had overreacted, but really it was entirely justified.

Allura had gone behind his back and gotten him involved in not only _another_ CIB investigation, but also managed to rope him into racing for _Voltron Motors_ again. Out of all of the possible sponsors.

None of this had even been remotely part of Lance’s plan when he split for Thunderhead this morning, but now he was on his way back through Cosmopolis. To Voltron Motors. To his old home.

To Keith Kogane.

Lance’s main emotion was anger, obviously. Betrayal from his best friend, a ruined morning, not to mention that he’d gotten himself a date with some asshole named James that he now had to bail on. He could’ve used some mindless making out right now.

Instead, he was speeding through familiar suburban streets, turning into alleys that looked the exact same as they had when Lance had last seen them in his rearview mirror. When he had left.

After his initial shouting match with Allura, things had devolved into talking about feelings and making up, as they usually did with his friend.

Not to say that Allura wasn’t as full-hardy as Lance was. It was more that their personalities aligned perfectly. It was easy to find middle ground and to get over themselves. She reminded Lance of someone he used to know.

Anyway, she’d managed to get him to agree to go meet with Voltron and Champion (and Coran was unofficially there, as well, though technically the CIB was not supposed to be involved in any of this).

And of course, there was the matter of Lance’s record being wiped and him getting a new racing license. He was a WRL racer again. And his first race would be one of the deadliest. He’d be an easy target for old rivals that still wanted to get their piece of him.

Lots of WRL racers hated him, and with good reason.

Lance had gotten a strongly worded letter from a fan once. They called him on the race-fixing, said it was clear as day that he was leagues ahead of all of the other guys on the track, that he and Keith could rule the world if he managed to get himself disentangled from whatever illegal company he had gotten involved with.

The letter had been strangely sympathetic, if not resentful. The people wanted a hero, but they weren’t going to get one out of Lance.

He pulled into a familiar driveway, feeling odd parking behind Champion’s Augury rather than in the garage. He’d used to have his very own parking spot here.

Lance sat in his car, not ready to get out and face the music just yet. He was going to see Hunk and Pidge again. They were probably gonna modify his car, give it T-180s and defensive mods for the Crucible.

He was going to see Shiro again, or the closest thing to Shiro that existed around here. Lance kind of assumed Champion was Shiro, just based on the timeline and the physical build and mannerisms. He’d always been good at reading people, mask or no.

He wondered if Keith knew. Or maybe Lance was dead wrong and Champion wasn’t Shiro at all. He really couldn’t say.

 _Deep breath._ The last thing Allura has said to him before he’d left the house for the second time that day came back to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

_“Lance McClain, do not let your past dictate your future. Go, and if you won’t do this for me or Keith, do it for yourself.”_

Lance had never forgotten his dream of making it big in the World Racing League, not after all these years.

He remembered watching the ‘43 Prix with Veronica and Rachel, remembered how he used to have cardboard standees of Burns and Stickleton in his room as a kid.

He also remembered rewatching that race with Keith, years later. And everything that happened after.

Lance unlocked the car. He popped the door open and swung his legs out, taking his time to stretch. _Time to suck it up._

He walked up to the front door of the Voltron household, feeling awkward knocking on the door rather than reaching for his keys to unlock it. He was pretty sure they’d changed the locks after he left.

Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen and the doorknob turned.

Hunk answered the door. He looked… older. Tired. And surprised.

“Lance?”

“Hey, buddy. Uh,” Lance paused, scrubbing at the back of his neck. _What am I doing here?_ “Long time no see.”

“Oh, fuck you! Get over here,” Hunk yelled, and then Lance was being crushed in one of Hunk’s signature bear hugs, and he’d never felt more relieved.

The moment seemed to stretch into infinity, but then Hunk was releasing him and gripping him by the shoulders, holding him at arm’s length to give him a once over.

“Nice haircut,” he said eventually, nodding to himself in approval.

Lance chuckled. Then he felt a kick to his shin and jumped back in surprise, body tensing and getting ready for combat.

“That was for leaving,” Pidge yelled, and Lance would’ve laughed but then they were kicking him again, harder this time. “And _that_ was for never coming back!”

Lance accepted that he was going to have some nasty bruises on his shins later and followed the two mechanics all the way into the house, noting that not much had changed during his two-year absence.

The conversation going on at the dining table ground to a halt as Lance stepped forward, every pair of eyes turning to him. Lance ignored them all, zeroing in on the bright violet eyes that belonged to the only man he had ever loved.

Keith was frowning at him. Coran or someone must have told him about the phone call. He probably knew that it had been Lance at Thunderhead. Keith probably still hated his guts, even after two years.

“Ah, Lance, I’m glad you’re here. We can finally begin,” Inspector Coran said, gesturing for everyone to gather around. Lance hesitated before pulling out the seat to Keith’s right. Where he used to sit every day. “Pidge and Hunk are going to walk you through all of your defensive mods for the race.”

“Sure are,” Pidge butted-in, already pushing away from the table even though they’d only _just_ sat down. “And they’re pretty fucking awesome so let’s get going!”

“Language,” Hunk called, hurrying after her as Keith, Coran, Champion, and Lance slowly stood from their chairs, following after the enthusiastic mechanics.

Keith fell into step beside Lance, but he didn’t say a word as they made their way to the garage. Lance glanced away when they passed the hallway with the bedrooms. Shiro’s had been left untouched after he ‘died,’ and Lance didn’t doubt that his bedroom got the same treatment.

He might as well have died like Shiro. Would’ve saved himself this embarrassment.

“So you’ve all got the same basic defensive mods,” Pidge called from the garage, waiting impatiently for everyone to file into the large workshop behind her. She walked up to what Lance assumed would be Champion’s vehicle, a sleek black car. “You got your standard Voltron Motors curvilinear body and jump jacks controlled with independent exothermic gearing linked to buttons on the steering wheel.”

“Now for the fun part,” Hunk said, yanking a sheet off of a red car that would probably be Keith’s. “You’ve got a reticulating jousting dish, titanium saw blades mounted beneath the trident broom, and bulletproof hydrodynamic cockpit glass,” Hunk listed, wrapping his knuckles against the glass for emphasis. “But that’s not all!” he continued, running back to the black car before Pidge interrupted him.

“I wanna tell them about this!”

Lance couldn’t help the small smile that settled on his face as the two mechanics bickered, the scene all too familiar to him. He saw Keith frowning at him out of the corner of his eye and quickly schooled his face back into something neutral.

“So, each car got a custom offensive mod,” Pidge finally said while Hunk crossed his arms and pouted off to the side. “First, Keith’s got an oil slick that can be lit on fire with this handy-dandy flamethrower.”

Keith smirked at that, looking pretty pleased with his mods.

“Champion’s got these boosters. Theoretically they’ll be able to get you going fast enough to ‘warp’ through other cars, so to speak. Single use, unfortunately. I can work on them more after the race if you like.”

Champion grunted his approval, which was probably all they would be getting out of him. Lance was a bit jealous of the mod -- seemed like it could be right up his alley.

“And last but certainly not least, Lance gets my prototype freeze-ray!”

Lance immediately resisted the urge to slap his palm against his forehead, because seriously? A _freeze-ray?_ That’s what the villains in kid’s movies used to threaten the female love interest!

“I haven’t seen you in a few years, but I can still read you like an open book, McClain,” Pidge said, calling Lance back from his thoughts. “So I couldn’t think of a cooler name. It freezes things. I’m sure you’ll find some use for it on the track.”

“And the _pièce de résistance,_ ” Hunk interjected dramatically, crouching down low to point at something that no one could even see. “Grind-lock tire crampons.”

“What do those do?” Champion asked, and if he didn’t have a mask on Lance would bet that he was raising an eyebrow.

“With Pidge’s help, I’ve got them so that they’ll theoretically enable your car to climb inclines of up to 110 degrees.”

Champion whistled in appreciation.

“ _Shit,_ ” Keith breathed out.

Lance was silent, staring at the third car in the back that was still covered in a tarp. _His car._

_Guess this is really happening, then._

“‘Shit’ is correct,” Coran said, snapping all of the drivers and mechanics out of their racing daydreams. You need to check into your hotel tomorrow night or you’ll be disqualified from the race! Off you go,” he said, ushering the three grown men out of the garage. “Don’t forget to pack your racing helmets!”

***

Lance had returned home to pack for the race, and Allura had insisted on coming with him after a lengthy discussion about friendship and support systems. She would be his eyes in the sky, flying around in that private helicopter of hers. Lance supposed that was one of the perks of being an heiress.

Anyways, the Casa Cristo would start in Andorra, cutting through France and Italy before looping back to the start. Voltron Motors was taking care of transporting the vehicles, so all Lance really had to worry about was himself.

He and Allura had arrived without any problems, reconvening with Champion and Keith and Pidge and Hunk (Coran couldn’t come with them, for obvious reasons), before checking into their various hotel rooms and calling it a night.

He had just started to drift to sleep when he heard a faint noise, like a whisper in the dark. Cloth padding across the hardwood floor…

It was clearly a person, and Lance could sense their movements as they drew closer to the bed. Even if it turned out to be someone he knew (he ignored the immediate thoughts of _Keith_ that came to mind), he didn’t want to take any chances.

Lance bolted upright in bed just as a needle plunged in the pillow he’d just been laying on. He jumped up, coming face to face with a fucking _ninja._

His first thought was that it _definitely wasn’t Keith._ That was quickly followed by the realization that this was an assassin. _Guess someone doesn’t want me in the race._

Lance bent out of the way of two ninja stars, vaulting over the bed and punching the ninja squarely in the face. His opponent shook it off, quickly throwing a series of jabs his way. Lance relied entirely on muscle memory, body moving and twisting to block each attack.

At some point, he got a solid upper-cut in, and the ninja fell onto his back before bouncing up again, snagging a pillow off of the bed.

They circled each other warily, Lance's arms raised in front of his face as he glared down his opponent.

“Who hired you?” he tried, doubting there would be a response.

As expected, the ninja remained silent, their hand slowly inching for something on their belt.

Lance broke the stand-off, attacking first in the hopes of avoiding whatever strange weaponry the ninja was about to pull out, but then the ninja was shifting just so and Lance was left precariously off balance.

And that was all it took for the ninja to trip him, tackling Lance onto the ground and holding the pillow over his face.

Lance clawed at the masked man above him, struggling to breathe as he was smothered, but the ninja was surprisingly strong and he had his arms and legs pinned beneath him.

Black spots danced across Lance’s vision, and even as his movements grew weaker and more sluggish, he desperately hoped that his friends were okay.

 _God,_ this was a lame way to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dunno where the Casa Cristo canonically takes place, but parts of the course look like they're in Europe so there you go. Is Lance okay? Will he die? Who knows? Stay tuned to find out >:)

**Author's Note:**

> Allow me to define some of that stuff for all of you folks who don't have a weird obsession with the 2015 Speed Racer movie like me lmao:
> 
> ■ The Casa Cristo Classic 5000 (aka the Crucible), is a rally consisting of two legs. Teams of three compete, and winners get an invite to the Grand Prix.  
> ■ The race Keith DNF'd on (Did Not Finish) was Fuji Helexicon, which is famous for being one of the most challenging tracks.  
> ■ Thunderhead Raceway is the oldest track is Cosmopolis (where Keith and co live) and was designed by the legendary Velocity Dewitt. In my AU, the official course record is held by Takashi Shirogane who had a time of 09:18:65.  
> ■ The Grand Prix is basically the World Cup of racing. The track changes every year.  
> ■ T-180s are what the racecars are called in this universe. The wheels can rotate 360 degrees. Cars also have 'jump jacks' that allow them to jump in the air and other random modifications.  
> ■ Togokahn Motors, Écron Éstablissement, and Galra Industries (this one I made for the AU) are all random sponsors. That means that they build/pay for the cars and have people compete for them in races. Keith competes for Voltron Motors, which is an independently run family business, but bigger corporations have seen that he's a good driver and want to recruit him.  
> ■ More about Lance will be revealed later, but he doesn't do official WRL races like Keith. He's a street racer. (And Allura is his friend. She'll come in later, too.)


End file.
